by McCall Hoyle
“You do know high tide is coming. Right? And that Collington Road washes out on a windy day. Parts of the beach road could wash out long before a storm hits.”
“I don’t have a choice. My uncle’s going to ride it out. He needs fuel, batteries, water.” He points to supplies piled in the backseat beside a massive plastic tub overflowing with what appears to be several wetsuits.
I want to argue, to ask him what kind of stupid relative would ride out a mandatory evacuation, but I keep my mouth shut. It’s his car, and he’s the only person to come along since I pulled over.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m no longer the one in control.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
We ride north in silence. I send a quick text to Carla, who says she can get me to Williamston. Then I draft a longer one to Mom, telling her about the flat, not to worry, and that Carla’s taking me to her. But now my dumb phone refuses to cooperate. The delivery receipt won’t load.
Come on. Come on. I hold my breath. This message has to go through or Mom will freak. I exhale when it finally sends. But the farther north we drive, the more my service bars dwindle. Signals are always a bit spotty up here but not this bad. The approaching storm must already be taking its toll. I feel like I’m letting go of a lifeline to my family, at least until we head south to Manteo.
I sit still, staring out the passenger window and trying not to touch any of Finn’s stuff. The inside of his car isn’t exactly dirty, but it definitely falls on the sloppy side of the cleanliness spectrum. Think several beef jerky wrappers, a couple empty Dr Pepper bottles, and at least one empty Doritos bag, not to mention surfing magazines and what looks like some kind of textbook on homeopathic healing.
The boy’s an oxymoron. What kind of person eats this much junk, drinks this much high-fructose corn syrup, and owns a book on natural remedies? I shift sideways, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. But my foot brushes an empty donut box, causing a tattered book to slide to the floor. At least I think it’s a book. The thing is more duct tape than actual cardboard and paper. Clearly, it’s been read about eighty-bazillion times. I lift it to read the title—Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff . . . and It’s All Small Stuff. It’s heavy from all the tape and looks like it would hold meaty information despite the silly title.
“Uh, sorry,” I say, apologizing when I realize Finn looks uncomfortable with me handling his raggedy book. Studying the minefield of crackling papers and plastic bottles surrounding my feet, I bend over to return the book to its special place atop the donut box.
“No. I’m sorry. I really need to clean my car,” he says, looking relieved when I return the book to its rightful place.
“You weren’t expecting a passenger.” I can tell he’s trying to be nice, and he did help me. My foot rustles an unidentifiable bag. We make eye contact, and I smile, a little peace offering. “But maybe you should cut back a bit on the junk food.”
“A guy’s gotta eat.” He shrugs and turns back to the road.
I should keep my mouth shut. Of course, I don’t. “That’s not actually food, you know? It’ll kill you,” I say, pointing at a beef jerky wrapper.
“But it tastes so good. I’ll die happy.” He rubs his stomach area.
I shoot a fleeting look at the big white textbook with the herbs and vegetables on the cover. He follows my gaze, then turns back to the road. His knuckles whiten a shade, like he’s uncomfortable again. I don’t understand why this boy, who doesn’t seem concerned about an oncoming hurricane, gets all nervous when I draw attention to his books, which can’t be all that important if they live in the landfill that is his vehicle.
“Hey, it’s protein,” he says, reverting to his class-clown demeanor. When a gust of wind threatens to blow us off the road, he appears completely unfazed.
Humph. I cross my arms, telling myself to bite my tongue. I’m not the healthiest person on the face of the planet, but calling beef jerky protein is a bit generous. “It’s sort of protein. In an artificial-chemical-mystery-meat kind of way.”
“Are you a dietician or something?”
“No, just trying to help. Speaking of which, we should really be heading south while we still can. Have you listened to the news?” Somehow, he manages to bring out the snippy verbal side of me that normally spends most of its time in hibernation. Unless it involves a class participation grade, I’m generally pretty good at keeping my mouth shut and my sarcastic comments inside my head.
“I don’t listen to the news. Way too bad for my health.”
I twist to look at him, ready to crack a joke of my own, but his face is . . . serious? I catch a glimpse of my open mouth in the rearview mirror. Way too bad for his health? Is he kidding? Is he crazy? I can’t even formulate words.
As we near the end of the paved road north of the last lighthouse, I close my eyes to the count of three, breathe deeply, and try a new tactic. “Maybe we could listen to the radio for a minute. You know? Just in case.”
He reaches for a knob on the old radio. “Sure. But it won’t change anything. I have to get this stuff to Zeke.”
I don’t respond. I strain to hear what the radio guy says between bursts of crackling static.
“. . . Repeat: the Emergency Management System has moved the mandatory evacuation to eleven o’clock tonight. Hurricane Harry is now a Category 2 storm. Based on the currently increasing wind speeds, it has the potential to reach Category 3 by the time it makes landfall. The forecast now predicts the storm will hit the Northern Outer Banks near high tide, creating an unpredictable storm surge. Please take all precautions to evacuate tonight. Expected road outages will prevent emergency personnel from reaching residents after that time.”
I have to stifle a gasp and clench the armrest tightly at the thought of a storm that bad. But paradox-boy seems completely unworried as he continues in the opposite direction of safety.
He taps out a happy rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumbs as if he didn’t just hear the same warning I did. Chewing my lower lip and sitting on my hands, I search for a more persuasive argument than the weather forecast we just heard. But I come up blank.
“What time is it?” I ask, nodding at the cracked leather watchband circling his wrist. Maybe drawing his attention to the passing hours will spark some sense of urgency.
He shrugs without checking his watch.
“Um, I’m pretty sure the thing on your wrist will tell you.”
“Oh, this?” He glances down and jiggles his watch.
“Yeah, that.” I try not to sound sarcastic. I really do.
“It hasn’t worked in months.”
I don’t want to ask. I know the answer will be something ridiculous, but I can’t help myself. The boy’s an enigma begging to be solved. “Then why are you wearing it?”
“It’s symbolic.” He continues his sporadic drum solo on the steering wheel.
I press my lips together.
Don’t ask, Sophie.
Don’t ask.
“Of what?” Crap.
“Of time.” He glances over at me, like I’m purposely being stupid. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “It really does fly, you know? I want to make sure I get the most out of it. Plus, it’s still correct twice a day.”
I have no response to that, so I check my phone despite its dwindling battery power and see it’s almost seven o’clock. We continue in silence until we reach the ramp to the four-wheel-drive beach road, where Finn pulls over to let air out of his tires. At least he has some knowledge of where and how to drive on the beach. But his experience with the upper reaches of the four-wheel-drive area isn’t helping the nerves simmering in my belly.
It’s not just the storm now. I haven’t been north of the sound-to-sea fence Mom and Dad fought so hard to build since before Dad left. It’s the best thing I remember them doing together before the accident ruined our lives—before h
e walked out on us.
Finn glances at me when we reach the packed sand near the shoreline. “You okay, Bookworm? You look carsick.”
“I’m fine.” I’d rather swallow mouthfuls of sand than disclose to Finn Sanders all my family drama.
“Whoa.” He points at the dune line to our left. Several wild horses huddle together near a line of weathered utility poles. Heavy-duty wire cable links the poles one to the other, forming an almost indestructible fence. The gray poles resemble weary soldiers, marching inland as far as the eye can see and out into the choppy Atlantic in the opposite direction.
The horses could be statues in iron, copper, and marble except for their long manes and tails gliding on the northerly wind. They look like Jack and Roxie and Dolly with a few glaring exceptions. They’re more compact than the typical domesticated horse. Their backs are shorter, making them more square and less rectangular. And if you look closely, their tails are set lower on their hindquarters, evidence of their Spanish Mustang heritage.
Finn eases his foot off the brake as he studies the horses. “I haven’t seen them this far south since . . . I don’t think I’ve seen them this close to the fence since they were penned in.”
My heart constricts. I’m not sure if it’s a wave of grief or the way his voice drops on the word penned as though it disgusts him. Probably, it’s a combination of the two.
“They’re not penned in. That fence saves their lives from . . .” I want to say reckless drivers like you. Instead I grip the door handle as we bounce over an uneven patch of sand.
“That fence is a cage—keeping them from expanding their habitat. They’re no better off than if they were in a zoo.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care enough to argue, but I’m pretty sure the arch of his eyebrow confirms my gut instinct—he’s challenging me, like he thinks he scored a point in this debate that’s not really a debate.
I level my eyes on his profile, trying to sound confident and casual at the same time. “They have seventy-five-hundred acres to roam. My parents organized the fundraising and building of that fence. They love those horses. They’d be extinct if it weren’t for people like my parents. Even with the fence, they’re critically endangered.”
For once, he shuts up.
I scan the beach for more horses, determined to keep my mouth closed, but I can’t. “My mom says the horses migrate ahead of the storms. They’ve moved the evacuation up ten hours. Surely if your friend Zeke or whatever his name is—”
“He’s my uncle.”
“If your uncle lives up here year-round, he must know the risks. He must be prepared in case of emergency, especially if he plans to stay put. If you won’t turn back, will you at least hurry? Please.”
Mom’s the superstitious one. Not me. Logically, I don’t think the horses can predict weather that far off. Maybe they sense the dropping barometric pressure or something, but they can’t possibly know where the storm will make landfall when the weather service isn’t even certain. But Mom’s been right so often when it comes to the weather and her animals, I can’t help but consider the possibility she might be right again. The horses might be pushed up against their southern boundary in an attempt to dodge the oncoming storm.
“Relax, Worrywart. We’ve got hours—more than enough time to get you to Manteo and a dependable ride.” His biceps twitch beneath his short sleeves when he jerks left to avoid a wave rushing in farther than the previous ones.
Refusing to be baited, I clamp down on my lower lip with my teeth and contemplate the absence of sea birds. I pray they’re floating to safety on the winds ahead of the storm or that their automatically clenching toe muscles will keep them safely perched in a sturdy tree somewhere. I try not to think about Doc Wiggins telling me about the birds that seek refuge in the eye of the hurricane, then die of fatigue or starvation if the storm outlasts their stamina.
Marker signs count off every quarter mile as we head farther north. We’ve traveled several miles when Finn veers left and stomps the gas pedal. He thrusts us over the dune line and into a grove of gnarled trees, heading for a shack that blends in with the maritime forest around it.
“How did you know where to turn?” I ask, marveling at his sense of direction. We passed the last vacation rental a ways back. Since then it’s been nothing but a stretch of dunes and sea oats that all look pretty much alike.
He lifts his shoulders, like he’s never thought about it before. “Instinct, I guess.”
At the sound of Finn’s Blazer, a hunched figure barely visible from behind bushy eyebrows and a chest-length beard opens the door and tosses up a hand in greeting. When his eyes land on me in the passenger seat, his hand drops. It’s hard to say because of all the hair, but I’m pretty sure his leathery face tightens.
Mine feels kind of stiff as well. I don’t know what I expected from Finn’s uncle; maybe an older version of Finn with deeper creases at the corners of the eyes. But this guy’s more Duck Dynasty than surfer dude. I’ve seen my fair share of salty, commercial fishermen, and a number of hardcore mountain men when we visited Mom’s relatives in West Virginia, but I’ve never seen anyone like this guy on the Outer Banks. I try not to stare as Zeke approaches the Blazer.
Finn jumps down to the sand. They move to the back of the car and open the door.
I turn and smile. “Hi,” I say.
Finn sort of smiles. But I think he’s trying not to smile more than he’s actually smiling, like he’s in on a joke I missed. He hands Zeke several huge packs of batteries, gallons of water, and two cardboard boxes. Zeke stacks the supplies on the ground.
“Who’s that?” Zeke asks in a gruff voice without acknowledging me.
“A friend from school. Her name’s Sophie.”
I don’t know which shocks me more, Zeke’s bad manners or Finn Sanders introducing me as a friend. Clearly, his definition of friend and mine vary.
“Too bad you won’t be able to grab a quick set of waves. They’ve gone off the Richter in the last hour or two.” Zeke turns to lift one of the boxes stacked on the sand.
Finn’s voice drops. “Like how off the Richter?” He glances over his shoulder, like he’s looking to see if I’m listening.
Not only am I listening, but alarm bells sound in my brain. I know enough about Finn to realize tempting him with waves off the Richter is like asking a stressed-out chocoholic if he wants a Hershey’s bar.
I open my mouth to speak, but Finn beats me to it. “Sophie, you want to see something awesome?”
“Uh . . . no. I want to get off this island.”
“Sorry, bro.” Zeke slaps Finn on the back, then starts carting his goods inside. “I’m going out there before the waves get too serious.”
Finn’s the one who looks sick now, like someone set him up on the world’s most awkward blind date. He drags a hand through his shaggy hair when he speaks. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Bookworm. Can you give me like twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes to kill yourself? Sure. Have fun.”
He ignores my sarcasm and snatches a wet suit from the tub in the backseat. Leaning over the top of the car, he unfastens hooks and latches on the board rack as he speaks. “You’re the best. Make yourself comfortable.”
“I was kidding!” I tell him.
I want to bang my head on the dashboard. I want to lecture him on the dangerous surf conditions. I want to close my eyes, wave a magic wand, and transport myself from this rattrap of a vehicle to the cab of Mom’s truck. But there’s no use arguing with him. I can tell he’s going to do what he wants to do when he wants to do it.
I try to strike a bargain. “What if you’re not back in twenty minutes?”
“I will be.”
“If you’re not, I’m leaving.”
“Fine.” He steps down from the running board, pulling a white surfboard off the roof and resting it on his shoulder.
I level my eyes on his face to make sure he knows I’m serious. “I’m leaving in your car.”
&nbs
p; He slings the wet suit over his other shoulder, hesitating for a second before responding. “We don’t have to worry about that because I’ll be back in twenty.”
As I watch him jog off, I decide I’m fairly sure he’s lying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When you meet triumph or disaster, treat these imposters alike.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Eighteen minutes later, I’ve flipped through two surfing magazines and the book on natural eating and healing. The sections pertaining to digestion are heavily highlighted with notes scribbled in the margins. No wonder. The boy’s a walking gut bomb waiting to explode. I’m pretty sure he could skip the research, eat real food, and eliminate whatever’s upsetting his system.
After nineteen minutes, I glance over the dunes with mixed emotions—half hoping Finn will come waltzing back with a goofy smile, a wisecrack, and the desire to chauffeur me to Manteo ASAP—half hoping he won’t show so I can hit the road by myself.
At twenty minutes, I crawl into the driver’s seat. I’ve never driven a stick shift, but it can’t be that difficult. Yesenia’s mom has a stick shift, and she explained how the clutch works. We just never got around to practicing, since Yesenia hasn’t bothered to get her driver’s license. Between her siblings and me being able to drive her around, she says there’s no need.
My feet barely reach the pedals, so I scoot to the edge of the seat and turn the key in the ignition. The engine doesn’t fire up or even sputter. Something near the keyhole click, click, clicks. That’s about it. I try a second time. And a third. Nothing.
Finn’s car looks like it’s survived World War III, but it drove fine for him. I must be doing something wrong. I suck down a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and think clearly. This would be a great time to pull up a tutorial video online, but my service is still hovering at zero bars. I’m anxious enough without thinking about my phone and all the alerts and planner alarms I’m missing, so I try to focus on driving.
For the life of me, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. The car is in gear. I’m turning the key. It must have something to do with the clutch. I figure I can’t hurt this beast of a vehicle, so I press the clutch to the floor and give it another try. The green ogre rumbles to life. With the clutch still mashed to the floor, I move the gearshift down to reverse and give it some gas. Ha! I’m not breaking any speed barriers, but I’m moving—that is until I attempt to stop, turn, and shift to first. The fickle monster sputters and dies.
